It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow, It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow; The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power, When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour. The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom; The melody to charm is the sport we love to name, Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form; The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm, Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway, An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array, Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa', To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw. When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame— There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!



THE MERRY BOWLING-GREEN.

AIR—"Castles in the Air."

The gloomy days are gone With the blasts o' winter keen; The flowers are blooming fair, And the trees are budding green; The lark is in the sky, With his music ringing loud, Raining notes of joy From the sunny Summer cloud— Springing at the dawn With the blushing light of day, And quivering with delight In the morning's golden ray; But there 's rapture dearer far In the warm and social power Of the merry bowling-green, In the happy evening hour!

The lights and shades of life, Like an April day, are seen, 'Mid the melting sunny showers, On the lively bowling-green. The Spring and Autumn meet When the old and young are there, And mirth and wisdom chase From the heart the thoughts of care. When the creaking wheels of life Are revolving weak and slow, And the dashing tide of hope May be ebbing dark and low, The sons of wealth and toil Feel the sweet and soothing power Of the merry bowling-green, In the charming leisure hour!

The streams of life run on Till they fall into the sea; And the flowers are left behind, With their fragrance on the lea. The circling flight of time Will soon make the young folk old; And pleasure dances on Till the springs of life grow cold. We 'll taste the joys of life As the hours are gliding fast, And learn to live and love From the follies of the past; And remember with delight, When misfortunes intervene, The happy days we 've spent On the merry bowling-green.



THOMAS TOD STODDART.

Thomas Tod Stoddart, well-known through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th February 1810 in Argyle Square, Edinburgh. In the chamber of his birth Dr Robertson is said to have written the "History of Scotland." His father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several distinguished services: he was present at Lord Howe's victory at the landing in Egypt; at the battles of the Nile and Copenhagen, and in many desperate encounters between Russia and Sweden. Young Stoddart was educated at a Moravian establishment at Fairfield, near Manchester, and subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the University of Edinburgh. Early devoted to verse-making, he composed a tragedy in his ninth year; and at the age of sixteen was the successful competitor in Professor Wilson's class, for a poem on "Idolatry." He was an early contributor to the Edinburgh Literary Journal.

Mr Stoddart studied for the Bar, and passed advocate in 1833. Finding the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it; and entering upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at Kelso. For many years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. In 1831, he published "The Deathwake, or Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, "The Art of Angling;" in 1836, "Angling Reminiscences;" in 1839, "Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, "Abel Massinger; or the Aeronaut, a Romance." The second of these publications has been remodelled, and under the title of "The Angler's Companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general favour. The volume of "Songs" having been sold out, a new edition, along with a tragedy, entitled "The Crown Jewel," and "The Aeronaut," both still in MS., may be expected. Living at Kelso, Mr Stoddart has every opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the Tweed, and enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament.



ANGLING SONG.

Bring the rod, the line, the reel! Bring, oh, bring the osier creel! Bring me flies of fifty kinds, Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds, All things right and tight, All things well and proper, Trailer red and bright, Dark and wily dropper; Casts of midges bring, Made of plover hackle, With a gaudy wing, And a cobweb tackle.

Lead me where the river flows, Shew me where the alder grows, Reel and rushes, moss and mead, To them lead me—quickly lead, Where the roving trout Watches round an eddy, With his eager snout Pointed up and ready, Till a careless fly, On the surface wheeling, Tempts him, rising sly From his safe concealing.

There, as with a pleasant friend, I the happy hours will spend, Urging on the subtle hook, O'er the dark and chancy nook, With a hand expert Every motion swaying, And on the alert When the trout are playing; Bring me rod and reel, Flies of every feather, Bring the osier creel, Send me glorious weather!



LET ITHER ANGLERS.

Let ither anglers choose their ain, An' ither waters tak' the lead; O' Hieland streams we covet nane, But gie to us the bonnie Tweed! An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn That steals into its valley fair— The streamlets that at ilka turn, Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.

The lanesome Tala and the Lyne, An' Manor wi' its mountain rills, An' Etterick, whose waters twine Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills; An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright, An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed; Their kindred valleys a' unite Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.

There 's no a hole abune the Crook, Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath, Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook, That daunders through the flowrie heath, But ye may fin' a subtle troot, A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot, Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.

Frae Holylee to Clovenford, A chancier bit ye canna hae, So gin ye tak' an' angler's word, Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae, An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand Yer birzy hackles black and reid; The saft sough o' a slender wand Is meetest music for the Tweed!



THE BRITISH OAK.

The oak is Britain's pride! The lordliest of trees, The glory of her forest side, The guardian of her seas! Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide, To brave the wintry breeze.

Our hearts shall never quail Below the servile yoke, Long as our seamen trim the sail, And wake the battle smoke— Long as they stem the stormy gale, On planks of British oak!

Then in its native mead, The golden acorn lay; And watch with care the bursting seed, And guard the tender spray; England will bless us for the deed, In some far future day!

Oh! plant the acorn tree Upon each Briton's grave; So shall our island ever be, The island of the brave— The mother-nurse of liberty, And empress o'er the wave!



PEACE IN WAR.

Peace be upon their banners! When our war-ships leave the bay— When the anchor is weigh'd, And the gales Fill the sails, As they stray— When the signals are made, And the anchor is weigh'd, And the shores of England fade Fast away!

Peace be upon their banners, As they cross the stormy main! May they no aggressors prove, But unite, Britain's right To maintain; And, unconquer'd, as they move, May they no aggressors prove; But to guard the land we love, Come again!

Long flourish England's commerce! May her navies ever glide, With concord in their lead, Ranging free Every sea, Far and wide; And at their country's need, With thunders in their lead, May the ocean eagles speed To her side!



ALEXANDER MACLAGAN.[12]

Alexander Maclagan was born at Bridgend, Perth, on the 3d of April 1811. His father, Thomas Maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning this occupation, he settled in Perth as a manufacturer. Unfortunate in business, he removed to Edinburgh, with a young family of three children; the subject of the present memoir being the eldest. Catherine Stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the Stuarts of Breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. At the period of his father's removal to Edinburgh, Alexander was only in his fifth year. Not more successful in his pursuits in Edinburgh, where three additional children were born to him, Thomas Maclagan was unable to bestow upon his son Alexander the liberal education which his strong natural capacity demanded; but acquiring the common rudiments of knowledge at several schools in the Old Town, he was at the early age of ten years taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he remained two years. Being naturally strong, and now of an age to undertake more laborious employment, his father, rather against the son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in Edinburgh, with whom he served six years. About this time he produced many excellent drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the Edinburgh School of Design, but the arduous duties of his occupation precluded the possibility of his following his natural bent. His leisure time was chiefly devoted to the cultivation of literature. So early as his thirteenth year he entered the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library as a member; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry.

In 1829, while yet an apprentice, Maclagan became connected with the Edinburgh Literary Journal, edited by Mr Glassford Bell. As a contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick Shepherd, Professor Wilson, William Tennant, and William Motherwell, who severally commended his verses. On the expiry of his apprenticeship he worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. He was married in his eighteenth year; and he has three surviving children. In 1831, he commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the Mound, Edinburgh; but finding he had inadequate capital, he proceeded to London in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. In the metropolis he was well received by Allan Cunningham, and was, through his recommendation, offered an appointment under Mr Cubitt, the well known builder. A strike among Mr Cubitt's workmen unfortunately interfered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much disappointed, returned to Edinburgh. He now accepted an engagement as manager of a plumbery establishment in Dunfermline, where he continued two years. He afterwards devoted himself to literary and educational pursuits.

In 1841, Maclagan published a collected edition of his poems, which immediately attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey. He invited the poet to his residence, and on many occasions proved his benefactor. On the publication, in 1849, of another volume, entitled, "Sketches from Nature, and other Poems," the critic wrote to the poet in these words, "I can remember when the appearance of such a work would have produced a great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more solid advantages." Among the last written of Lord Jeffrey's letters, was one addressed to Mr Maclagan in regard to the second edition of his Poems. Shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in Lord Cockburn, who procured for him a junior clerkship in the office of the Inland Revenue, Edinburgh. This situation proved, however, most uncongenial; he found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of being transferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. In 1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner in the hall attached to Burns' Cottage, and more lately he received a similar compliment in his native town. Considerate attentions have been shewn him by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Duke of Argyle, the Rev. Dr Guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. In the autumn of 1856 he had conferred on him by the Queen a small Civil List pension.

Mr Maclagan's latest publication, entitled, "Ragged and Industrial School Rhymes," appeared in 1854, and has well sustained his reputation. Imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. In social life he delights to depict the praises of virtue. The lover's tale he has told with singular simplicity and tenderness.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] To Mr Disseret of Edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of Mr Maclagan's personal history.



CURLING SONG.

Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame, A health to a' that love the name; Hurrah for Scotland's darling game, The pastime o' the free, boys. While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang, We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang, And sing its praises loud and lang— The roarin' rink for me, boys. Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame, A health to a' that love the name; Hurrah for Scotland's darling game; The roarin' rink for me, boys.

Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours, Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs; Let wily fisher prove his powers At the flinging o' the flee, boys. But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel, Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal, Wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel— The roarin' rink for me, boys.

In ancient days—fame tells the fact— That Scotland's heroes werena slack The heads o' stubborn foes to crack, And mak' the feckless flee, boys. Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm, They aften tried the curlin' charm To cheer the heart and nerve the arm— The roarin' rink for me, boys.

May love and friendship crown our cheer Wi' a' the joys to curlers dear; We hae this nicht some heroes here, We aye are blythe to see, boys. A' brithers brave are they, I ween, May fickle Fortune, slippery queen, Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean— The roarin' rink for me, boys.

May health an' strength their toils reward, And should misfortune's gales blow hard, Our task will be to plant a guard Or guide them to the tee, boys. Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes, Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's, Here 's three times three for beef an' greens— The roarin' rink for me, boys.

A' ye that love auld Scotland's name, A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame, A' ye that love auld Scotland's game, A glorious sicht to see, boys— Up, brothers, up, drive care awa'; Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw; Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah— The roarin' rink for me, boys.



THE AULD MEAL MILL.

The auld meal mill—oh, the auld meal mill, Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still; Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill, Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown, Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down; Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rill That ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.

When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round, The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound; The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil, Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.

The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack, The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back; The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill, Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.

Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Caesar kens weel When the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal; But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will The hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.

There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill— They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill— But ance it was said that a het Hielan' still Was aften at wark near the auld meal mill.

When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld, Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld; The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill, A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.

Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows, The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows; Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill— There 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.

At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane, Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein'; Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', until The laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.

I hae listen'd to music—ilk varying tone, Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone; But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.

Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel! Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal! Bless the miller—wha often, wi' heart and good-will, Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.

The auld meal mill—oh, the auld meal mill, Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still; Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill, Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.



THE THISTLE.

Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me! A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers— The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!

'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight, When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might; 'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows, For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows! Hurrah for the thistle, &c.

Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land— On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand— On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free, May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be! Hurrah for the thistle, &c.

Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause; Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause; How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer, And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here? Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me! A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers— The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!



THE SCOTCH BLUE BELL.

The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell, The dear blue-bell for me! Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell For a' the flowers I see.

I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell, I hail thee, floweret fair; Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell, Or wavest mid mountain air— Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks, Or fountain's flowery brink: Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks, The deer descend to drink. The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook Beside love's trystin' tree; I see thee bend to kiss the brook, That kindly kisseth thee. 'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen, Blithe noddin' o'er her brow, Meet marrows to her lovely een O' deep endearin' blue! The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

When e'enin's gowden curtains hing O'er moor and mountain gray, Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring A dirge to deein' day; But when the licht o' mornin' wakes The young dew-drooket flowers, I hear amid their merry peals, The mirth o' bridal hours! The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd, The mountain's heather crest, There aft wi' thee hae I array'd My Mary's maiden breast; Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells, Her bosom fa' and rise, Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells, 'Neath summer's deep blue skies. The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws, I seek the blue-bell grot; An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's Sae sweet, I leave it not; An' when upon my tremblin' breast, Reclines my maiden fair, Thou know'st full well that I am blest, And free frae ilka care.

The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell, The dear blue-bell for me! Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell, For a' the flowers I see.



THE ROCKIN'.

The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht, The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht, An' happy hearts are here the nicht, To haud a rantin' rockin'!

There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care; There 's Mary, wi' the modest air; An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair, Will a' be at the rockin'.

There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel; There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel; An' Meg, sae daft about a reel, Will a' be at the rockin'.

The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht; The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht; The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht, Will a' be at the rockin'.

The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e, Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee; The wonder-workin' dominie, Will a' be at the rockin'.

The miller, wi' his mealy mou', Wha kens sae weel the way to woo— His faither's pipes frae Waterloo He 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.

The souter, wi' his bristly chin, Frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin; The curly-headed whupper-in, Will a' be at the rockin'.

There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld, There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld, There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld; Sae prove our merry rockin'.

The tales they tell, the sangs they sing, Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring, And some will dance the Highland fling, Right blithely at the rockin'.

Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire, Fond friendship will each soul inspire, An' mirth will get her heart's desire O' rantin', at the rockin'.

When sair foredung wi' crabbit care, When days come dark whilk promised fair, To cheer the gloom, just come an' share The pleasures o' our rockin'.



THE WIDOW.

Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain, Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain; Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.

Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel, Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel; Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store, The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door; Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw, Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw; Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer, The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear; The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes, That auld Widow Miller has seen better days, Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'— Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa, Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa'; Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair, On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare; When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain, The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.

The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen, I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean; Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod, To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God, What she utters to Him is no kent to ane, But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours, When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers; When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains, To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.



THE HIGHLAND PLAID.

What though ye hae nor kith nor kin', An' few to tak' your part, love; A happy hame ye'll ever fin' Within my glowing heart, love. So! while I breathe the breath o' life, Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye; My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide— Creep closer, my wee dearie!

The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud, May speak o' ghaists an' witches, An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts Through bogs an' droonin' ditches; There's no ae imp in a' the host This nicht will daur come near ye; My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide— Creep closer, my wee dearie!

Why do you heave sic heavy sighs, Why do ye sab sae sair, love? Altho' beneath my rustic plaid An earl's star I wear love, I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth, And as a queen revere thee; My Highland plaid is warm an' wide— Creep closer, my wee deerie!



THE FLOWER O' GLENCOE.

Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains, An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below, The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains— The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe; But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushes That flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes, For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes, I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin', 'Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe; Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin', My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago. An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger, Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the danger O' famine and death in the land o' the stranger, Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

But success crown'd our toils—ye hae a' heard the story, How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low— I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory, An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go. Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure; Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure; Then a bumper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure— The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.



MRS JANE C. SIMPSON.

Jane Cross Bell, better known by her assumed name of "Gertrude," is the daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and was born in Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in the Greenock Advertiser, while her father for a short time resided in that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of the Edinburgh Literary Journal she afterwards contributed numerous poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and verse to the Scottish Christian Herald, then under the able editorship of the Rev. Dr Gardner. In 1836, "Gertrude" published a small volume of tales and sketches, entitled, "The Piety of Daily Life;" and, in 1838, a duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "April Hours." Her latest work, "Woman's History," appeared in 1848.

In July 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and has since resided chiefly in Glasgow. Amidst numerous domestic avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary pursuits. She is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.



GENTLENESS.

Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me, 'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee; The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue, In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!

What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire, And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire; 'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love, And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!

Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well, Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell; A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood— Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!

No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now, Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow, And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face, And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.

An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand, And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand— Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men, Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!

I long'd to weep—I strove to speak—no words came from my tongue, Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung; The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind; I could have borne to meet thy wrath—'twas death to see thee kind!

'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return, A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn; But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past, The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last! O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me! It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee; I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine, But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine!



HE LOVED HER FOR HER MERRY EYE.

He loved her for her merry eye, That, like the vesper star, In evening's blue and deepening sky, Shed light and joy afar!

He loved her for her golden hair, That o'er her shoulders hung; He loved her for her happy voice, The music of her tongue.

He loved her for her airy form Of animated grace; He loved her for the light of soul, That brighten'd in her face.

He loved her for her simple heart, A shrine of gentle things; He loved her for her sunny hopes, Her gay imaginings.

But not for him that bosom beat, Or glanced that merry eye, Beneath whose diamond light he felt It would be heaven to die.

He never told her of his love, He breathed no prayer—no vow; But sat in silence by her side, And gazed upon her brow.

And when, at length, she pass'd away, Another's smiling bride, He made his home 'mid ocean's waves— He died upon its tide.



LIFE AND DEATH.

To live in cities—and to join The loud and busy throng, Who press with mad and giddy haste, In pleasure's chase along; To yield the soul to fashion's rules, Ambition's varied strife; Borne like a leaf upon the stream— Oh! no—this is not life!

To pass the calm and pleasant hours, By wild wood, hill, and grove, And find a heaven in solitude, With one we deeply love; To know the wealth of happiness, That each to each can give, And feel no power can sever us— Ah! this it is to live!

It is not death, when on the couch Of sickness we are laid, With all our spirit wasted, And the bloom of youth decay'd; To feel the shadow dim our eyes, And pant for failing breath; Then break at length life's feeble hain— Oh, no! this is not death!

To part from one beneath whose smiles We long were used to dwell, To hear the lips we love pronounce A passionate farewell; To catch the last too tender glance Of an adoring eye, And weep in solitude of heart— Ah! this it is to die!



GOOD NIGHT.

Good night! the silver stars are clear, On evening's placid brow; We have been long together, love— We must part now.

Good night! I never can forget This long bright summer day, We pass'd among the woods and streams, Far, far away!

Good night! we have had happy smiles, Fond dreams, and wishes true, And holier thoughts and communings, And weeping too.

Good night! perchance I ne'er may spend Again so sweet a time, Alone with Nature and with thee, In my life's prime!

Good night! yet e'er we sever, love, Take thou this faded flower, And lay it next thy heart, against Our meeting hour.

Good night! the silver stars are clear, Thy homeward way to light; Remember this long summer day— Good night! good night!



ANDREW PARK.

The author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was born at Renfrew, on the 7th March 1811. After an ordinary education at the parish school, he attended during two sessions the University of Glasgow. In his fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "Vision of Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own account. At this period he published several additional volumes of poems. His business falling off in consequence of a visitation of cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London, to follow the career of a man of letters. After some years' residence in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a bookseller in Ingram Street. The speculation proved unfortunate, and he finally retired from the concerns of business. He has since lived principally in Glasgow, but occasionally in London. In 1856 he visited Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Egypt and the East."

Of the twelve volumes of poems which Mr Park has given to the public, that entitled "Silent Love" has been the most popular. It has appeared in a handsome form, with illustrations by J. Noel Paton, R.S.A. In one of his poems, entitled "Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Of his numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. The whole of his poetical works were published in 1854, by Bogue of London, in a handsome volume, royal octavo.



HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS.

Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands, The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free; Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.

'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze, As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light; And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas, In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.

'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower, Where the hurricane revels in madness on high; For there it has might that can war with its power, In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.

I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms; I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea; But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms— Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!



OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE!

Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas, Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze; Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high, Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky! For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

O name not the land where the olive-tree grows, Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose; But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head, O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed. For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold, Who wielded their brands in the battles of old, Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land, With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand! For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!



FLOWERS OF SUMMER.

Flowers of summer, sweetly springing, Deck the dewy lap of earth; Birds of love are fondly singing In their gay and jocund mirth: Streams are pouring from their fountains, Echoing through each rugged dell; Heather bells adorn the mountains, Bid the city, love! farewell.

See the boughs are rich in blossom, Through each sunlit, silent grove; Cast all sorrow from thy bosom— Freedom is the soul of love! Let us o'er the valleys wander, Nor a frown within us dwell, And in joy see Nature's grandeur— Bid the city, love! farewell.

Morning's sun shall then invite us By the ever sparkling streams; Evening's fall again delight us With its crimson-coloured beams. Flowers of summer sweetly springing, Deck the dewy lap of earth; Birds of love are loudly singing, In their gay and jocund mirth.



HOME OF MY FATHERS.

Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur, In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee; In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander, And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me! I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping, Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below; The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping, Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow. Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow— Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly; Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay! Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly, Surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray! Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory, And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves, Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story, Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves! Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow— Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather, The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen, The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither, But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men! Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee, And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea— Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee, Home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee! Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow— Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!



WHAT AILS MY HEART?

What ails my heart—what dims my e'e? What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie? Ye werena aye sae cauld to me; Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie. I 'm wae to see you, like a flower Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie, Droop farer down frae hour to hour, An' waste sae fast awa, Jamie.

I 'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true, She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie; She ne'er has gien thee cause to rue; If sae—ye still are free, Jamie. I winna tak your hand and heart, If there is ane mair dear, Jamie; I 'd sooner far for ever part With thee—though wi' a tear, Jamie.

Then tell me your doubts and your fears, Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie; Are ye afraid o' coming years, O' darker days to me, Jamie? I 'll share your grief, I 'll share your joy, They 'll come alike to me, Jamie; Misfortune's hand may all destroy, Except my love for thee, Jamie.



AWAY TO THE HIGHLANDS.

Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing, Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky! Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning, Though England's proud structures enrapture the view; Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning, Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue. Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing, Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!

Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory, His foot in the sea and his head in the sky; His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary, And round him, and round him the elements fly. The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing, The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by; When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring 'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh! Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing, Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!



I 'M AWAY.

I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream, To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam. I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind; The music of birds and the murmur of rills, Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills. How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell! Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell; I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

Oh, land of my fathers! Oh, home of my birth! No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth! Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high, Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky! Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod, Which minstrels of yore often made their abode— Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales, That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales. How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell! Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell; I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!



THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.

There is a bonnie, blushing flower— But ah! I darena breathe the name; I fain would steal it frae its bower, Though a' should think me sair to blame. It smiles sae sweet amang the rest, Like brightest star where ither's shine; Fain would I place it in my breast, And make this bonnie blossom mine.

At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er I see this fair, this fav'rite flower, My heart beats high with wish sincere, To wile it frae its bonnie bower! But oh! I fear to own its charms, Or tear it frae its parent stem; For should it wither in mine arms, What would revive my bonnie gem?

Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'— That flower can never fade with me, That frae the wintry winds that blaw Round each neglected bud is free! No, it shall only bloom more fair, When cherished and adored by me; And a' my joy, and a' my care, This bonnie, blushing flower shall be!



THE MAID OF GLENCOE.

TUNE—"Come under my plaidie."

Once more in the Highlands I wander alone, Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown; By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen, Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again. Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur, Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know; But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander— Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!

Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay, I felt she had stole my affections away; The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree, But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me. The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain, The hours glided by without languor or woe, As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains— My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!

The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime, Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time! And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart, Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art. And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood, Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow, A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood— 'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.



MARION PAUL AIRD.

The accomplished and amiable author of "Heart Histories" and other poems, Marion Paul Aird, is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors were respectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother, a niece of Hamilton Paul, formerly noticed,[13] was descended from a race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth, Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in Kilmarnock. She early studied the British poets, and herself wrote verses. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics, entitled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" this was followed in 1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of "Heart Histories." She has two new volumes of poetry ready for the press. Her poetry is largely pervaded by religious fervour and devoted earnestness.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] See vol. ii., p. 120.



THE FA' O' THE LEAF.

'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin', The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae; The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in', Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay.

Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters, No a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea; Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee.

The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie, When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray; But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay."

How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather, Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';" An' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither, Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw:

But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely, Man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast; The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane by," An' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past."

The fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted, An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn; An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted, An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return:

But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin', An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night! When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin', Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light.

The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie, Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa', An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie, May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw.

Kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer," Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath; But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?

How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en, When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa'; When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'— But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'!



THE AULD KIRK-YARD.

Calm sleep the village dead In the auld kirk-yard; But softly, slowly tread In the auld kirk-yard; For the weary, weary rest, Wi' the green turf on their breast, And the ashes o' the blest Flower the auld kirk-yard.

Oh! many a tale it hath, The auld kirk-yard, Of life's crooked thorny path To the auld kirk-yard. But mortality's thick gloom Clouds the sunny world's bloom, Veils the mystery of doom, In the auld kirk-yard.

A thousand memories spring In the auld kirk-yard, Though time's death-brooding wing Shade the auld kirk-yard. The light of many a hearth, Its music and its mirth, Sleep in the deep dark earth Of the auld kirk-yard.

Nae dreams disturb their sleep In the auld kirk-yard; They hear nae kindred weep In the auld kirk-yard. The sire, with silver hair, The mother's heart of care, The young, the gay, the fair, Crowd the auld kirk-yard.

So live that ye may lie In the auld kirk-yard, Wi' a passport to the sky Frae the auld kirk-yard; That when thy sand is run, And life's weary warfare done, Ye may sing o' victory won Where there 's nae kirk-yard.



FAR, FAR AWAY.

TUNE—"Long, long ago."

Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly Far, far away; far, far away; Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky, Far, far away; far, far away; Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow, Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow, Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow, Far, far away; far away.

There never trembles a sigh of regret, Far, far away; far, far away; Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set, Far, far away; far, far away; There I from sorrow for ever would rest, Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast; Tears never fall in the homes of the blest, Far, far away; far away.

Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part, Far, far away; far, far away; One is their temple, their home, and their heart, Far, far away; far, far away; The river of crystal, the city of gold, The portals of pearl, such glory unfold, Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told, Far, far away; far away.

List! what yon harpers on golden harps play; Come, come away; come, come away; Falling and frail is your cottage of clay; Come, come away; come, come away: Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you, Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true; Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new; Come, come away; come away.



WILLIAM SINCLAIR.

A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811. His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.

Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in Blackwood's Magazine. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation of reporter to one of the local journals.



THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.

Thy queenly hand, Victoria, By the mountain and the rock, Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills A Royal British Oak; Oh, thou guardian of the free! Oh, thou mistress of the sea! Trebly dear shall be the ties That shall bind us to thy name, Ere this Royal Oak shall rise To thy fame, to thy fame!

The oak hath scatter'd terror O'er our foemen from our ships, They have given the voice of England's fame In thunders from their lips; 'Twill be mirror'd in the rills! It shall wave among the hills! And the rallying cry shall wake Nigh the planted of thy hand, That the loud acclaim may break O'er the land, o'er the land!

While it waves unto the tempest, It shall call thy name to mind, And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be Like the rushing of the wind! Arise! ye Gaels, arise! Let the echoes ring your cries, By our mountain's rocky throne, By Victoria's name adored— We shall reap her enemies down With the sword, with the sword!

Oh, dear among the mountains Shall thy kindly blessing be; Though rough may be our mien we bear A loyal heart to thee! 'Neath its widely spreading shade Shall the gentle Highland maid Teach the youths, who stand around, Like brave slips from Freedom's tree, That thrice sacred is the ground Unto thee, unto thee!

In the bosom of the Highlands Thou hast left a glorious pledge, To the honour of our native land, In every coming age: By thy royal voice that spoke On the soil where springs the oak— By the freedom of the land That can never bear a slave— The Breadalbane Oak shall stand With the brave, with the brave!



EVENING.

Oh, how I love the evening hour, Its calm and tranquil sky, When the parting sun from a sea of gold Is passing silently; And the western clouds—bright robes of heaven— Rest gently on the breast of even!

How calm, how gorgeous, and how pure, How peaceful and serene! There is a promise and a hope Enthroned o'er all the scene; While, blushing, with resplendent pride, The bright sun lingers on the tide.

The zephyrs on the waveless sea Are wrapt in silent sleep, And there is not a breath to wake The slumbers of the deep— Peace sits on her imperial throne, And sounds of sadness there are none!

Methinks I hear in distance harps By heavenly seraphs strung, And in the concave of the sky The holy vespers sung! Oh, thou great Source of light and power, We bless thee for the evening hour!



MARY.

If there 's a word that whispers love In gentlest tones to hearts of woe, If there 's a name more prized above, And loved with deeper love below, 'Tis Mary.

If there 's a healing sound beneath To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour, If there 's a name that angels breathe In silence with a deeper power, 'Tis Mary.

It softly hangs on many a tongue In ladies' bower and sacred fane, The sweetest name by poets sung— The high and consecrated strain— Is Mary.

And Scotia's Bard—life's holiest dream Was his, the silent heavens above, When on the Bible o'er the stream He vowed his early vows of love To Mary.

Oh, with the sweet repose of even, By forest lone, by fragrant lea, And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven, How dear shall the remembrance be Of Mary!

Scotland and Mary are entwined With blooming wreath of fadeless green, And printed on the undying mind; For, oh! her fair, though fated Queen, Was Mary.

By the lone forest and the lea, When smiles the thoughtful evening star, Though other names may dearer be, The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far, Is Mary.



ABSENCE.

The fields, the streams, the skies are fair, There 's freshness in the balmy air, A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods, And pleasure fills thy solitudes, And sweets are strewn where'er we rove— But thou art not the land we love.

How glorious, from the eastern heaven, The fulness of the dawn is given! How fair on ocean's glowing breast Sleeps the soft twilight of the west! All radiant are thy stars above— But thou art not the land we love.

Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam, Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream; From morn to noon, from noon to even, Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven, From field and forest, vale and grove— But thou art not the land we love.

To high and free imaginings Thy master minstrels swept the strings, The brave thy sons to triumph led, Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead, And Liberty thy chaplet wove— But thou art not the land we love.

From the far bosom of the sea A flood of brightness rests on thee, And stately to the bending skies Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise: Thy heavens—how fair they smile above! But thou art not the land we love.

Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand, The mountains of our native land! Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free, And their rejoicing minstrelsy! The heath below, the blue above, The altars of the land we love!



IS NOT THE EARTH.

Is not the earth a burial place Where countless millions sleep, The entrance to the abode of death, Where waiting mourners weep, And myriads at his silent gates A constant vigil keep?

The sculptor lifts his chisel, and The final stroke is come, But, dull as the marble lip he hews, His stiffened lip is dumb; Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work, He hath called to a holier home!

The soldier bends his gleaming steel, He counts his laurels o'er, And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win On many a foreign shore; But his Master declares with a sterner voice, He shall break a lance no more!

The mariner braved the deluge long, He bow'd to the sweeping blast, And smiled when the frowning heavens above Were the deepest overcast; He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky— He hath laid him down at last.

Far in the sea's mysterious depths The lowly dead are laid, Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice Their burial service said? Have not the quiring tempests rung The dirges of the dead?

The vales of our native land are strewn With a thousand pleasant things; The uplands rejoicing in the light Of the morning's flashing wings; Even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns— The resting-place of kings!

And man outpours his heart to heaven, And "chants his holiest hymn," But anon his frame is still and cold, And his sparkling eyes are dim— And who can tell but the home of death Is a happier home to him?



OH, LOVE THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER DEAR![14]

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear— He fell on Balaklava's plain, Yet ere he found a soldier's bier He blest his beauteous child again; Though o'er the Light Brigade like rain, War's deadly lightning swiftly fell, On—on the squadron charged amain Amidst that storm of shot and shell! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, A jewel in his heart was she, Whose noble form disdain'd the storm, And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear— Even like a knight of old romance, Brave Cardigan, disdaining fear, Heard but the bugle sound—advance! And paler droops the flower of France, And brighter glows proud England's rose, As charge they on with sabre-glance, And thunders thickening as they close! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, And be thy grateful kindness shewn; And still her father's name revere, For, oh, 'tis dearer than her own; And tell his deeds in battle done, And how he fearless faced the foe, And urged the snorting war-horse on With death above, around, below! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, Who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine; Her father's glorious deeds appear, And laurels round her brow entwine; In that full eye, that seems divine, Her sire's commanding ardour glows; His blood, that flow'd for thee and thine, Within his daughter's bosom flows! Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, A jewel in his heart was she, Whose noble form disdain'd the storm, And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

FOOTNOTES:

[14] This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair to the present work.



THE BATTLE OF STIRLING.

To Scotland's ancient realm Proud Edward's armies came, To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm Our martial force in shame: "It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried; "It shall not be!" his chiefs replied; "By the name our fathers gave her, Our steel shall drink the crimson stream, We 'll all her dearest rights redeem— Our own broadswords shall save her!"

With hopes of triumph flush'd, The squadrons hurried o'er Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd Like wild waves to the shore: "They come—they come!" was the gallant cry; "They come—they come!" was the loud reply; "O strength, thou gracious Giver! By Love and Freedom's stainless faith, We 'll dare the darkest night of death— We 'll drive them back for ever!"

All o'er the waving broom, In chivalry and grace, Shone England's radiant spear and plume, By Stirling's rocky base: And, stretching far beneath the view, Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew, When, like a torrent rushing, O God! from right and left the flame Of Scottish swords like lightning came, Great Edward's legions crushing!

High praise, ye gallant band, Who, in the face of day, With a daring heart and a fearless hand, Have cast your chains away! The foemen fell on every side— In crimson hues the Forth was dyed— Bedew'd with blood the heather, While cries triumphal shook the air— "Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare, Wherever Scotsmen gather!"

Though years like shadows fleet O'er the dial-stone of Time, Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat With the throb of manhood's prime! Still shall the valour, love, and truth, That shone on Scotland's early youth, From Scotland ne'er dissever; The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern Shall wave around her Wallace cairn, And bless the brave for ever!



WILLIAM MILLER.

The writer of Nursery Songs in "Whistle Binkie," William Miller, was born at Parkhead, Glasgow, about the year 1812. He follows the profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. "Ye cowe a'," which we subjoin, amply entitles him to a place among the minstrels of his country.



YE COWE A'.

AIR—"Comin' through the rye."

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said; But nae reply my lassie gied—I blamed the waterfa'; Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'! Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'! I wonder how the birds can woo—oh, it cowes a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove, Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love; Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa'; Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'! Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!" To woo I 'll try anither way—for this cowes a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell, Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well; Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma', And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'! Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'! Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave—oh, ye cowe a'!"

"I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet lass; on Sunday we 'll be cried, And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride." Quo' she, "I 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;" "The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'! Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'! But wilfu' folk maun hae their way—oh, ye cowe a'!"



ALEXANDER HUME.

Alexander Hume was born at Edinburgh on the 17th February 1811. He is employed as a journeyman cabinetmaker in that city. As a musical composer he has attained considerable eminence. The following popular songs from his pen are published with music of his own composition.



MY AIN DEAR NELL.

Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee; Though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me; Though mony a year 's gane o'er my head since, down in Linton's dell, I took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear Nell. Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days, When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes; When I pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell, To twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear Nell!

How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea, Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree; Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell— Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell! And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear, We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear; We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell, For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!

They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hair Is snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair, Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell, For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell! Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee, Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me, As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell— Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!



THE PAIRTIN'.

Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee, Hame, and frien's, and country dear; Oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee, Happier days may soon be here. See yon bark, sae proudly bounding, Soon shall bear me o'er the sea, Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding Calls me far frae love and thee.

Summer flowers shall cease to blossom; Streams run backward frae the sea; Cauld in death maun be this bosom, Ere it cease to throb for thee. Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin', Shed by Heaven, around thee fa'; Ae last time thy loved form pressin'— Think o' me when far awa'.



METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.



JOHN MACDONALD, D.D.

The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic preachers, was born in 1778. He was ordained minister of the Gaelic Church, Edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish of Urquhart, in Ross-shire. While at Urquhart, he began a career of remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or visitor of other Highland districts, that he established his professional fame. His powerful voice is said to have reached and moved thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. A long-expected volume of Gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. Dr Macdonald died in 1849. At the Disruption in 1843, he had joined the Free Church.



THE MISSIONARY OF ST KILDA.

The descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by Dr Macdonald on the occasion of his first visit to St Kilda, often called "The Hirt" or "Hirta," after the Gaelic. His missionary enterprise was blessed, we believe, with remarkable success.

I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire, And the missionary spirit within me is on fire; But needs it all—for, bristling from the bosom of the sea, Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me; The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare, Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair. And how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near, Where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear? It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the main Were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain! But the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant Hirt the grim, Save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim. Oh, needs a welcome to that shore, for well my thought might say, 'Twere better than that brow to face that I were leagues away. But no, not so! what fears should daunt,—for what welcomes e'er outran The welcome that I bring with me, my call from God and man? Nor vain my trust! my helmsman, He who sent me, now is steering, And, by His power, the wave-worn craft the shore in calm is nearing, And scarce my foot was on the beach when two hundred echoes spake Their welcome, and a hundred hands flew forth my hand to take. And he, believe me, has his best protection by his side Who bears the call of God and man, from the reef, the crag, the tide; And, for welcome on the shore, give me the flashing eyes that glow'd, When I told the men of Hirt the news I brought them from their God!



DUNCAN KENNEDY.

Duncan Kennedy was born about the year 1758. His father was gardener to Mr M'Lachlan of Kilanahanach, in the parish of Glassary, Argyleshire. In his youth he enjoyed the advantage of attending the parish school, which was then conducted by an able classical scholar. At an early age he was qualified to become an instructor of youth in a remote part of his native parish, and there he had frequent opportunities of becoming acquainted with "Iain Ban Maor" the Gaelic poet, and enjoyed the privilege of listening to the eminent Daniel Campbell and other pious ministers in the surrounding parishes. He was promoted to the parish school of Kilmelford about the year 1784, and soon thereafter published his collection of "Hymns and Spiritual Songs." During his summer vacations he travelled over the districts of Kintyre, Argyle, and Lorn, in search of legends concerning the Fingalians, and was successful in collecting a mass of information, which in Gaelic verse he styled "Sean dana." The MS. of his researches he intrusted to the perusal of a neighbouring clergyman, from whom he was never able to recover it, a circumstance which led him afterwards to inveigh against the clerical order. From Kilmelford parish school, Kennedy in 1790 removed to Glasgow, where he was engaged, first as an accountant, and afterwards in mercantile pursuits. At one period he realised about L10,000, but he was latterly unfortunate and indigent. During his old age he was allowed a small pension from "The Glasgow Merchants' Home." Several years subsequent to 1830 he resided at Ardrisaig in Argyleshire. His death took place at Glasgow in 1836. He has left a MS. ready for publication, entitled "The Ark of Ancient Knowledge." His volume of hymns has passed into a second edition.



THE RETURN OF PEACE.

With a breezy burst of singing Blow we out the flames of rage! Europe's peace, through Europe ringing, Is, of peace, our lifetime pledge. Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari, Faldar, aldar, aldar, e'; Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari, Faldar, ari, faldar, e'.

Every musket to the guard-house, And its lead to furlough send— To the tilling of the meadows Every gallant bayonet bend.

See, a lusty fleet is steering Homewards, to the shore of peace; And brave hearts, a host, are nearing To the expectant dear's embrace.

See the kilted Highlander As from Egypt's battles come— Westlander and Norlander, Eager for the sight of home.

Seven years orphan'd of their fathers, Shelterless and sad no more, Quite a little army gathers, Shouting welcomes from the shore.

All the echoes are in motion, All the sheilings ring with glee, Since, of peace, the paths of ocean Give the news a passage free.

The birds the dash of oars was scaring— Hush'd their note, but soon they raise, To their wonted branch repairing, Sweetest numbers on the sprays.

Seem the woods to dance a measure, Nodding as the notes inspire— And their branches, as with pleasure, Add their music to the choir.

Of the streamlet, every murmur Sweetly swells the song of peace, Chanting, with each vocal charmer, Joys that bloom and wars that cease.



ALLAN M'DOUGALL.

Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate. His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is popular in the Highlands.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.



THE SONG OF THE CARLINE.

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding, O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding, O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in, And but a poor wittol to see.

If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin', The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin', A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin', She 's a shame and sorrow to me. If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill, Or with a good fellow a moment sit still, Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill, And the talk of the clachan are we.

She 's ailing for ever—my welcome is small, If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all; Contention and strife, in the but and the hall, Are ready to greet my return. Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever, I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever, I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever— Short while would suffice me to mourn.

It was not her face, or dress, or riches, It was not a heart pierced through with stitches— 'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches That brought me a bargain like Janet. O when, in the spring I return from the plough, And fain at the ingle would bask at its low, Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow, Or a kick, if her foot is within it.

No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing, No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing; Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing The core of my heart with her bother. For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her, As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather, And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her, For a hag can you shew such another?

No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye, At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high, The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly, And leave the reception for me. O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding, O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding, O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in, And but a poor wittol to see!



KENNETH MACKENZIE.

Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness. By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings of hospitality.



THE SONG OF THE KILT.

My darling is the philabeg, With scarlet hosen for the leg, And the spotted curtal coat so trig, And the head blue-bonneted.

The wimpled kilt be mine to wear, Confusion take the breechen gear, My limbs be fetterless and bare, And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]

Oh, well I love the eididh[17] free, When it sends me bounding on the lea, Or up the brae so merrily, There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.

Give me the plaid, and on the hill I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell, And not a shiver from the chill Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.

And for the tartan's lively flame, In glen or clachan 'tis the same, Alike it pleases lass and dame— Unmatched its glories ever yet.

Be mine in Highland graith array'd, With weapon trim the glens to tread, And rise a stag of foremost head, Then let him tent my culiver.

And when I marshal to the feast, With deer-skin belt around my waist, And in its fold a dirk embraced, Then Roland match shall Oliver.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from donned, silly woman.

[17] Highland garb.



JOHN CAMPBELL.

John Campbell (Ian Ban), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire, was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much popularity among the Gael.



THE STORM BLAST.

Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls. It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm, And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm. Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere, And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near? That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires? The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires. Come let us try another weird—the tempest let us chain; A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein! Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.



JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D.

The Rev. James Macgregor, D.D., Presbyterian minister at Nova Scotia, was born in 1762, in the vicinity of Comrie, Perthshire. He entered on ministerial duty in Nova Scotia shortly after becoming a probationer, and continued in this important sphere of clerical labour to the close of his life. He died at Pictou on the 1st of March 1830, in his 68th year. Dr Macgregor composed excellent sacred verses in Gaelic. His general scholarship and attainments were publicly acknowledged by his receiving the degree of Doctor of Divinity from the University of Glasgow.



LIGHT IN THE HIGHLANDS.[18]

Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael, Untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil, Though well was seen the Saxon's power their interest to betray; But now, to knowledge thanks, the Gael are letter-wise as they.

Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground, Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around; Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire, To all her native darkness she must in despair retire. Each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scale Will mount the inspirations of the language of the Gael.

* * * * *

Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head, As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread; Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom, And well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home. No more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud— No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.

O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold, When he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old, In iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear; Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear, That sympathy or fondness ask,—and the sad world is fain To welcome its return to love and innocence again.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Composed on hearing of the late Principal Baird's successful expedition to the Highlands, for the purpose of establishing the General Assembly's Schools.

END OF VOL. V.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.



* * * * *

]

* * * * *



THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D., F.S.A. SCOT.

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL VI.

EDINBURGH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.

MDCCCLVII.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PAUL'S WORK.



TO

CHARLES BAILLIE, ESQ.,

SHERIFF OF STIRLINGSHIRE,

CONVENER OF THE ACTING COMMITTEE FOR REARING

A NATIONAL MONUMENT

TO THE

ILLUSTRIOUS DEFENDER OF SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE,

THIS SIXTH VOLUME

OF

The Modern Scottish Minstrel

IS DEDICATED,

WITH SENTIMENTS OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT AND ESTEEM,

BY

HIS VERY OBEDIENT FAITHFUL SERVANT,

CHARLES ROGERS.



CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION, xi

OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG. BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, xx

CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D., 1 Love aweary of the world, 8 The lover's second thoughts on world weariness, 9 A candid wooing, 11 Procrastinations, 12 Remembrances of nature, 13 Believe, if you can, 15 Oh, the happy time departed, 17 Come back! come back! 17 Tears, 18 Cheer, boys, cheer, 20 Mourn for the mighty dead, 21 A plain man's philosophy, 22 The secrets of the hawthorn, 24 A cry from the deep waters, 25 The return home, 26 The men of the North, 28 The lover's dream of the wind, 29

ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD, 31 Bonnie Mary Hay, 33 Scotland, I have no home but thee, 33

GEORGE DONALD, 35 The spring time o' life, 36 The scarlet rose-bush, 37

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL, 39 My life is one long thought of thee, 40 Why is my spirit sad? 41 Geordie Young, 42 My fairy Ellen, 44 A bachelor's complaint, 45

WILLIAM BENNET, 47 Blest be the hour of night, 48 The rose of beauty, 49 I 'll think on thee, love, 50 There 's music in a mother's voice, 51 The brig of Allan, 52

GEORGE OUTRAM, 54 Charge on a bond of annuity, 55

HENRY INGLIS, 59 Weep away, 59

JAMES MANSON, 61 Ocean, 61 The hunter's daughter, 63 An invitation, 63 Cupid and the rose-bud, 64 Robin Goodheart's carol, 65

JAMES HEDDERWICK, 67 My bark at sea, 68 Sorrow and song, 69 The land for me, 70 The emigrants, 72 First grief, 73 The linnet, 76

WILLIAM BROCKIE, 78 Ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair, 78

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN, 80 The lang winter e'en, 80

THOMAS YOUNG, 81 Antoinette; or, The Falls, 81

ROBERT WILSON, 84 Away, away, my gallant bark, 84 Love, 85

EDWARD POLIN, 87 A good old song, 88

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN, 89 I wander'd alane, 89 Katie Blair, 91

DAVID TAYLOR, 92 My ain gudeman, 92

ROBERT CATHCART, 94 Mary, 94

WILLIAM JAMIE, 96 Auld Scotia's sangs, 96

JOHN CRAWFORD, 98 My auld wifie Jean, 102 The land o' the bonnet and plaid, 103 Sing on, fairy Devon, 104 Ann o' Cornylee, 105 My Mary dear, 106 The waes o' eild, 107

JOHN STUART BLACKIE, 109 Song of Ben Cruachan, 115 The braes of Mar, 117 My loves, 118 Liking and loving, 120

WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P., 121 Ruth, 122 Shallum, 126

THOMAS C. LATTO, 127 The kiss ahint the door, 128 The widow's ae bit lassie, 129 The yellow hair'd laddie, 130 Tell me, dear, 131

WILLIAM CADENHEAD, 133 Do you know what the birds are singing, 134 An hour with an old love, 135

ALLAN GIBSON, 137 The lane auld man, 138 The wanderer's return, 139

THOMAS ELLIOTT, 141 Up with the dawn, 142 Clyde boat song, 143 Dimples and a', 144 Bubbles on the blast, 145 A serenade, 146 A song of little things, 147 My ain mountain land, 148 When I come hame at e'en, 149

WILLIAM LOGAN, 151 Jeanie Gow, 151

JAMES LITTLE, 153 Our native hills again, 154 Here 's a health to Scotia's shore, 155 The days when we were young, 156 Lizzy Frew, 158

COLIN RAE BROWN, 159 Charlie 's comin', 160 The widow's daughter, 161

ROBERT LEIGHTON, 163 My muckle meal-pock, 163

JAMES HENDERSON, 165 The wanderer's deathbed, 165 The song of Time, 167 The Highland hills, 168 My native land, 169

JAMES MACLARDY, 171 The sunny days are come, my love, 172 Oh, my love was fair, 173

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON, 176 Day dream, 177 Fair as a star of light, 179 Nature musical, 180

ISABELLA CRAIG, 182 Our Helen, 182 Going out and coming in, 184 My Mary an' me, 185 A song of summer, 186

ROBERT DUTHIE, 187 Song of the old rover, 187 Boatman's song, 189 Lisette, 190

ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON, 192 Things must mend, 193 The wee blink that shines in a tear, 194 Flowers of my own loved clime, 195

JAMES MACFARLAN, 196 Isabelle, 197 Household gods, 198 Poor companions, 199

WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL, 201 Lament of Wallace, 202 Oh! what is in this flaunting town, 203

MARGARET CRAWFORD, 205 My native land, 206 The emigrant's farewell, 207 The stream of life, 207 Day-dreams of other years, 209 Affection's faith, 211

GEORGE DONALD, JUN., 212 Our ain green shaw, 212 Eliza, 213

JOHN JEFFREY, 215 War-cry of the Roman insurrectionists, 216

PATRICK SCOTT, 218 The exile, 218

JOHN BATHURST DICKSON, 220 The American flag, 221

EVAN M'COLL, 222 The hills of the heather, 223

JAMES D. BURNS, 224 Rise, little star, 224 Though long the wanderer may depart, 225

GEORGE HENDERSON, 227 I canna leave my native land, 228

HORATIUS BONAR, D.D., 229 The meeting-place, 230 Trust not these seas again, 233

JOHN HALLIDAY, 234 The auld kirk bell, 234 The auld aik-tree, 236

JAMES DODDS, 238 Trial and death of Robert Baillie of Jervieswoode, 239

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

DUNCAN MACFARLAN, 249 The beauty of the shieling, 250

JOHN MUNRO, 251 The Highland welcome, 252

JOHN MACDONALD, JUN., 254 Mary, the fair of Glensmole, 254

EVAN M'COLL, 256 The child of promise, 256

INDEX, 257



INTRODUCTION.

As if pointing to a condition of primeval happiness, Poetry has been the first language of nations. The Lyric Muse has especially chosen the land of natural sublimity, of mountain and of flood; and such scenes she has only abandoned when the inhabitants have sacrificed their national liberties. Edward I., who massacred the Minstrels of Wales, might have spared the butchery, as their strains were likely to fall unheeded on the ears of their subjugated countrymen. The martial music of Ireland is a matter of tradition; on the first step of the invader the genius of chivalric song and melody departed from Erin. Scotland retains her independence, and those strains which are known in northern Europe as the most inspiriting and delightful, are recognised as the native minstrelsy of Caledonia. The origin of Scottish song and melody is as difficult of settlement as is the era or the genuineness of Ossian. There probably were songs and music in Scotland in ages long prior to the period of written history. Preserved and transmitted through many generations of men, stern and defiant as the mountains amidst which it was produced, the Minstrelsy of the North has, in the course of centuries, continued steadily to increase alike in aspiration of sentiment and harmony of numbers.

The spirit of the national lyre seems to have been aroused during the war of independence,[1] and the ardour of the strain has not since diminished. The metrical chronicler, Wyntoun, has preserved a stanza, lamenting the calamitous death of Alexander III., an event which proved the commencement of the national struggle.

"Quhen Alysandyr oure kyng wes dede, That Scotland led in luve and le, Away wes sons of ale and brede, Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle: Oure gold wes changyd into lede. Cryst, borne in-to virgynyte Succour Scotland and remede, That stad is in perplexyte."

The antiquity of these lines has been questioned, and it must be admitted that the strain is somewhat too dolorous for the times. Stung as they were by the perfidious dealings of their own nobility, and the ruthless oppression of a neighbouring monarch, the Minstrels sought every opportunity of astirring the patriotic feelings of their countrymen, while they despised the efforts of the enemy, and anticipated in enraptured paeans their defeat. At the siege of Berwick in 1296, when Edward I. began his first expedition against Scotland, the Scottish Minstrels ridiculed the attempt of the English monarch to capture the place in some lines which have been preserved. The ballad of "Gude Wallace" has been ascribed to this age; and if scarcely bearing the impress of such antiquity, it may have had its prototype in another of similar strain. Many songs, according to the elder Scottish historians, were composed and sung among the common people both in celebration of Wallace and King Robert Bruce.